


where will you be waking up tomorrow morning?

by chrysalizzm



Category: One Piece
Genre: Blood, Gen, I guess????, Injury, Platonic Soulmates, Self-Worth Issues, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, but none actually happens because benn and shanks kill them, shanks is in a dress because he's pretty and i miss him, someone needs to make benn eat soap, there is nothing so deadly as someone in a dress with a sword (or two)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 22:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysalizzm/pseuds/chrysalizzm
Summary: Benn knows deep down thatthis is it. Who he’s been waiting for, who he was too lazy or too afraid to go out and seek. Someone to follow, someone to protect; someone to lay down his worthless little life for.wherein benn says "i've known this kid for five minutes but if anything happened to him i'd kill everyone in this room and then myself"





	where will you be waking up tomorrow morning?

There’s an unspoken code of conduct for pirates that reaches far and wide; even the bandit-rank pirates who own jack shit and an ego wider than the Grand Line know the basics. 

Chief among these unsaid rules is “don’t ask how a first mate became one”.

It’s mostly out of courtesy, because the story is painful more often than not for everyone involved, and for others it’s an intensely private matter that is only the captain and first mate’s concern. Still, Benn considers himself a laid-back guy. He gets asked that particular question way more than strictly appropriate - part of the package when you’re a Yonko’s right-hand - and he’s learned to sift through the fine details and give wankers a little too nosy for their own good the bloody details: “Met Shanks in the red-light district on some island in the South Blue. I lost a tooth that night, and he broke his leg in two places. We got gore all over our clothes. It was pretty slippery.” Since this tends to be a question asked over a meal, his conversation partner will usually lose their appetite around this time. 

He remembers every detail vividly, of course. The amuse-bouche he gives meddlers is completely true - it _was_ South Blue, an island with a particularly nasty district filled with slaves and sex traffickers and corrupt Marines officers rubbing elbows with wannabe pirates who did things that would make anyone squirm; Benn has a gold tooth found by Yasopp years back to replace the gap where his top left canine used to be, and Shanks’s otherwise normal leg gives him trouble on stormy days; Shanks, after much swearing and scrubbing, had to toss the silken yellow gown he’d been wearing that night. 

It’s all in the details, Benn supposes. 

What he will never tell outsiders is that he was a “corrupt” Marine once, a twenty-nine-year-old addict with more than one street brawl under his belt. That district was practically his home at that point, the prostitutes his siblings, the kinder pirates his parents. Even before giving up on a rotten system that never would have supported him, Benn was one foot in the deeper end. 

But the night where the scrawny little thing with a straw hat and a yellow dress tore past him and made him drop his gun is the one that continues to haunt his dreams _(because what if he’d never turned around to chase him. What would Benn do, directionless dreamless devastatingly devoted first mate that he is. To continue living as the scum of the world, bottom of the food chain, worthless to anyone and anything, committing acts of debauchery and treason in an effort to wound the Marines the only way he knew how at the time - by slandering it through his own disgusting, vile actions)_. 

The smoky, sickening perfume drifting in clouds from the dark entrances of the brothels, one of which he’s standing outside of, with his cigarette tucked under his tongue and his squad-issued rifle slung over his shoulder, a clunky thing that ranks somewhere below sewage on the list of things Benn wants to handle. The crest of noise around the corner, cursing and hollering, deep and low and barrel-chested in the way Benn knows it must be a crowd of men lusting after some poor young thing. The thought urges him from his post at the brothel doors; he snuffs out the cig and hikes the rifle higher - just as a golden streak accented with crimson charges by. They almost trip over each other out of surprise, and it slows the kid in the yellow dress just enough that Benn catches a glimpse of sharp black eyes, glossy red hair forcefully knotted into a tail, before the kid regains balance and continues sprinting down the alley. 

There’s a hook in Benn’s chest that has nothing to do with his gun having nearly fallen from his back in the altercation. The world seems to narrow around the red-haired kid booking it past the ramshackle rows of broken-windowed bars and run-down showrooms - like if Benn lets that kid go right now, he’ll never see them again, and he’ll regret the life he lost forever. 

His feet move before he even realizes they do, and suddenly the buildings are blurring past as he shoots after the bright dress. He’s not nearly as fast as the kid, but he knows the district better, and when he skids through a back alley and into the street that borders the end of the district, the kid smacks into him and they both go down with a yelp. 

_“Fuck,”_ Benn hears the kid hiss, and the _shink_ of a blade being quick-drawn from its sheath. He immediately sits up on his knees and raises his hands where the kid can see them, gasps, “Whoa! Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The sword is already pointed with startling accuracy at his throat, and the kid is breathing hard, scrutinizing Benn, calculating. On closer inspection, they’re a boy, or at least biologically they are. Stubble is making its presence known on his chin, and his chest is flat and narrow in a way that speaks of starvation, not athleticism. He’s also much younger than Benn had thought - seventeen or eighteen, at a guess, an age that the perverted filth of this district have a predilection for. His left hand is steady on the hilt of his blade, though, and his right is thumbing the sheath at his other hip - a dual user, and a skilled one at that. 

No one ever said Benn’s observational skills were lacking.

“Then why the hell were you following me?” the kid demands, raising the sword so that Benn’s head follows. He steps in closer, squinting in the dim lantern-light. The shimmer of the yellow dress catches the glow, and he looks striking like that: golden gown, sharp, hollow face, hair like the sheen of blood under a careworn straw hat. 

“I’m - I don’t - ” Benn doesn’t know. “I was just curious.”

The boy gives a bitter bark of laughter, just a single hoarse guffaw that throws his head back. “Oh, sure. Good story,” he bites. “Are you after my fucking bounty, too? Well, here’s a goddamn newsflash: Marine bastards like you tell horror stories about the red-haired nightmare on captain’s ship.”

Benn feels his heart drop. A pirate, then. One who presumably either lost his crew or was taken from them; there’s only reverence when he says “captain”, like gospel, so there’s no way he was cast aside by them. And Benn’s in the shitstained outfit of a foot soldier who cleans the johns. 

One gunless marine officer who specializes in guns against a wild-eyed, experienced pirate with two swords, place your bets now. 

“I was just - I didn’t mean to… to scare you or anything,” Benn manages. Internally there’s a groan of _you’re a grown man and you can’t even talk in front of this pirate kid to save your own ass? Next time let them slit your throat first_.

The kid doesn’t soften in the slightest. “I wasn’t spooked. Least of all by you. But there are plenty of wannabe bounty hunters in the area and one can’t be too careful. Clearly, I wasn’t careful enough.”

_For the love of god, Beckman, get it_ together. “I’m not Marines.”

The kid pauses at that. “...You sure about that? You’ve got a big ol’ Marines symbol slapped onto your back there.”

“I…” _hate them. I fucking hate this rotten-to-the-marrow government. I want to fucking gut them for what they do to good people, what they do to good pirates. what they do to just normal people. Bystanders. The civilians they take oaths to protect. Fucking hypocrites and fucking bitch-faced pansies, every last one of the ones at the top._ “...I’m - corrupt.”

“Uh… I don’t know if you got the memo, but I don’t exactly trust you, and that wasn’t super convincing.”

“Yeah, no kidding, you got a fuckin’ sword at my neck,” Benn gripes testily. “Will shooting a rotten officer sitting at one of the bars downtown make you believe me?”

Benn doesn’t know why, exactly, he so desperately wants this pirate to believe him. To believe in him. He can’t tell if it’s the charisma, or the beauty, or the guilt at the back of his throat whispering _will you be as blackened if you give up your pretense and take to the seas a free man?_

But the cynical kid with hair like flames is compelling in a way Benn has never encountered before, not because of any of his physical aspects but just with the blunt force of his personality that Benn’s gauged through their short back-and-forth, and Benn knows deep down that this is it. Who he’s been waiting for, who he was too lazy or too afraid to go out and seek. Someone to follow, someone to protect; someone to lay down his worthless little life for. 

The boy’s fallen back now, just slightly; his grip is looser, and the tip of the blade sinks to rest on the gravel. “Well, aren’t _you_ eager,” he says, but there’s an edge of humor in his voice that brings an ease to his stance, less stiff and more relaxed.

Benn relaxes too, mirroring the kid without consciously thinking about it. As soon as the kid had unwound, he became brighter, more charming, more approachable. It’s ridiculous how much of a difference a sense of security makes. “Look, I’ve been looking for a ticket out of here for years. If it’s gotta be by sniping a higher-up, so be it.”

The kid looks briefly taken aback, but a sudden intensity takes over his gaze and he drops down to a crouch, meeting Benn at eye level, his eyes smoldering with something that looks dangerous but doesn’t feel like it. The moment is fragile, and charged, and Benn knows if he does anything wrong at all the kid is going to leave, for better or for worse. He gnaws on his lip, regretting stomping out his cigarette earlier, as the boy inches forward.

“You said you want out? I got a proposition for you.”

“Wh - ” begins Benn, but the boy holds up a hand and Benn swallows his next sentence. 

“I’m a pirate, yeah, it’s obvious. The thing is, I don’t have a crew. I’m starting one myself, y’know? But captains need a trusted partner. Specifically, a first mate.” 

Now Benn actually can’t breathe. The choice the kid is offering hangs unspoken in the air, and Benn’s hateful past, rooted deep in this dirty district full of hateful things, digs its claws into his back as if to keep him chained there forever, even if he has to live a dog of the World Government forever. 

The kid hesitates, then says, “Hey - ”

_“There he is!!”_

They both flinch and turn, the kid rising and drawing his other sword and Benn reaching for his rifle, as a mob piles into the end of the street. A motley crew of marines disguised as beggars, pirates with the blood of innocents on their hands, and peddlers that specialize in pretty young children are leering at them, waving fists and assorted weapons.

“Thought ya could get away, babycake?” chortles a heavyset man at the front, swinging a poorly-kept cutlass in a decidedly risky way. “Go off running to a big brave Marine officer to save yer pretty skin?”

“That is _so_ creepy,” mutters the kid under his breath, shifting his feet so that his legs are set wider, getting ready to pounce. Benn adjusts accordingly, awkwardly; the rifle feels foreign even though he’s used it for years, and he fumbles with the safety, very aware that he looks like an idiot.

“You’re not very strong, are you?” the kid asks when Benn finally turns the safety off.

“Shut your face, you little smartass. My aim is better than any of my superiors’,” Benn quips back. The kid smirks and mouths “performance issues”.

“Aw, keep lookin’ at us, honeybun!” catcalls another man, who seems to be a captain, judging by the dilapidated, cliche black hat with a white skull and crossbones. “Don’tcha wanna know the faces of the guys who gonna be yer masters?”

“Suck my dick,” the kid yells back. Benn chokes on his startled laughter.

“Get ’im!” urges someone lost in the crowd, and the entire fucking parade of loons storms toward them. Any normal person would turn and run, or scream for help; the kid cackles and warms up his wrists. 

“You’re way too loyal to someone you just met,” he informs Benn as he leans forward in preparation for a lunge.

“Right back at you,” Benn says, and they both dive into the crowd.

It’s almost surreal in how visceral and up-close it is. Benn’s fought alone for most of his life, and if he ever watched someone’s back for them on the field, it’s out of convenience, because idiots go fast but the keen ones are useful and will watch his back in turn in a roundabout way of repayment. Being specialized in firearms will do a number on you, especially if you’re good at it; you can fire from a distance and feel no attachment to the target, no blood on your hands. It can be morbidly freeing of responsibility. 

Benn’s good. He knows he’s good. He sidesteps a goon and slams the butt of the rifle against the back of their head, stabs another in the arm with the bayonet attachment. He’s too tall to be anything but unwieldy in a close-combat situation, but his sharpshooting is second to none, and he’s distinctly aware of it as he rolls to put his back against a wall and shoots three, seven, thirteen of the bastards, reloading as quickly and efficiently as he can with his regulation piece-of-shit gun. They fall with screeches and sprays of blood, but it’s nothing serious; Benn went non-fatal. 

The same can’t be said for the kid who’d been so playful just minutes before. He moves smoothly, like a Sea King through water, the only warning being flashes of silver and red and gold. Benn watches out of the corner of his eye as he lashes out with his bayonet and whistles at the kid’s dexterity when he spins the two swords over his forearms and kicks down three men to stab them in the stomachs. Very coordinated, with an eye for the soft spot of an opponent - Benn can believe the kid’s claim that he was “the red-haired nightmare” of his previous crew.

“Eyes on me, big boy!” grunts his current opponent, one of the last standing out of the original crowd of about fifty. He’s a larger man with muscles like cords of wood, both hands wrapped around the handle of a heavy battle axe that looks like it was stolen from an antiques shop. 

_Please never say that to me again,_ Benn thinks, repulsed, and jumps away when the man winds up and slams the blade down. He’s stupid, and he’s unbalanced, but he’s far ahead of Benn in terms of strength, and Benn can feel his arms shake from the effort of blocking an earlier blow.

_“ARGH!!”_

Benn’s head whips around, unbidden, when he hears the thin scream of pain. The kid’s eliminated almost all of the remainders save another large man that seems to be somehow related to Benn’s own opponent. He’s looming triumphantly over the kid, whose right leg shows from a gash in his dress. Benn’s stomach turns unpleasantly at the rapidly purpling bruises and odd angles of the exposed limb.

“Kid!” he cries, but has to retreat a few steps, cursing, as the axe-man lumbers forward with another powerful swing. 

“Is that your pretty little toy?” he jeers. “Too bad we gonna snap your spine, then take it for ourselves!”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Benn hisses, and dodges the next swing, which misses by a long shot with how the bastard was gloating. his feint gets him close enough to -

Stars explode in his vision when the meaty fist smashes against his cheek, and he collapses onto his side, feels the metallic tang of blood begin to leak from his nose, tastes it in his mouth. Something’s been knocked loose in there, and when he manages to gather his scattered wits enough to spit it out before he swallows it, a bloody tooth rolls into the street.

His cheek’s swelling up fast enough that one eye is totally fucked for sight, but he cracks his other eye open enough to see that axe-man has joined his brother to make faces at the kid. Even from his position, he can see that the kid’s arms are shaking with the effort to keep him upright. The golden dress is now unsalvageable, Benn thinks with no little bit of hysteria, and has to bite his lip through the agony to keep himself from bursting into giggles. _Concussion. It must be a concussion._

“Mister Bray was right, you’re a real cutie,” sneers axe-man’s brother, reaching down to grab the kid by the arm. The kid snarls and shimmies backward, nabbing one of his swords from where it was stuck in someone’s chest and leveling it at the two men. His breathing is shallow and fast, though - a mixture of panic and pain, no doubt - and it’s clear he won’t be able to last against both men. They have the advantage both in numbers and in brawn.

The advance on him now, and Benn groans lowly as he forces himself into a sitting position. His rifle didn’t fall far from him, and he thanks whatever deity is watching over him when he finds that it’s still half loaded.

The kid shrieks when axe-man finally gets a grip on him, and swings his sword wide, an attempt to kill, spitting his hair out his mouth, looking like a cornered wild animal. Axe-man’s brother manages to get the blade and tosses it aside, leaving just an unarmed boy staring at them with eyes blacker than an abyss.

“Oh, goody, I _like_ the fighting ones.” Axe-man licks his lip and presses his foot against the kid’s broken leg. They both look delighted, sick, distorted, at the cry that rips from the kid’s throat.

Axe-man reaches for the kid’s dress.

Benn’s hands don’t waver when he shoots blind.

The axe-man is the one to fall first, like some great beast, as he topples backward. The brother goes right down after him; twin holes, bloody and small and innocuous, peek out from their hair.

Benn doesn’t feel anything for them except for cold, unbridled revulsion.

“Kid,” he coughs, spits more blood out because it was building up on his tongue and it’s nasty as hell. “You good? Hold on.”

“I’m good,” the kid replies, high and strained. Benn can’t help his snort as he picks his way to him, stepping on dead fingers left and right, his rifle dragging behind him.

“Sure,” he says, squats down slowly to stave off the wave of dizziness from change in altitude. Now that he’s at eye-level with the kid, he can see the minute scratches on his face, a nearly-black hand-shaped bruise stamped onto his shoulder, his mangled leg amongst the tatters of his golden skirt.

“You look like hell,” Benn informs the kid. His smile is wan, but Benn counts it as a win anyway.

“I know,” the kid returns. He brings his leg close to his body gingerly, hissing with every movement as it jars the broken bones. “God _damn_. Fucker stomped my leg to pieces.”

Benn stands up again as steadily as he can, pats his pockets down, and sighs in relief when he finds a cigarette. He lights it carefully and the hit of nicotine clears his head enough that when he looks back down at the kid, he has the mental capacity to tell him, “You’re very good.”

The kid’s scarlet, matted head whips up to stare at Benn from where he was beating his dress in a vain attempt to get the dust off it. Then, honey-slow, like a sun rising over the ink-blue line of the sea, he beams at Benn.

“Thanks,” he says, and they both know it’s not just for the compliment.

Benn sighs, stretches his back, and leans down to help the kid up. “Hey. You said you’re looking for a first mate, yeah?”

The kid’s eyes are practically sparkling. It hurts to look at him. “Damn right I am. Do we have a deal?”

“On the first date? Don’t I get to know your name first?”

The kid throws his head back with his laugh again. It seems to be a habit. It’s endearing; he looks like a lion, everlasting, fierce. “My name,” he says fondly, “is Shanks.”

Benn looks down to meet the kid’s eyes and replies, “I’m Benn Beckman. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, cap’n.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from fall out boy's "miss jackson"
> 
> this was originally completely in lapslock but i realize that's a turnoff for a lot of readers so i spent thirty minutes making it acceptable for grammarly again
> 
> regarding these highly ooc interpretations of shanks and benn - i've taken a lot of creative liberties with this work, and i haven't properly watched or read one piece in a while. most of the story is based on my own small headcanons. this story is set when shanks is eighteen and benn is twenty-nine, and gol d. roger has just been executed six months ago. shanks is very on-edge and lonely, as any teenager who lost everything they've ever known is. i don't go super in-depth with benn's past or his actions here, but suffice it to say he's ashamed of himself for sticking with the marines for so long even though he knows how corrupt it is, hence his self-worth issues. benn, here, is a man who has been lost for a while.
> 
> i hope this story was interesting! please enjoy it i spent studying time on this fic


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